A Cold Day in July
by Sennalyn
Summary: A simple camping trip takes a tragic turn. Complete.
1. Default Chapter

**A Cold Day in July **

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**Author's Note: **I based this story on a true incident which occurred in July 2001 at a state park in Morro Bay, California. As you can see, there are two endings to this story, and just like that Choose Your Own Adventure series you loved as a kid, you get to pick which one you'd like to read. The Alternate Ending has a happy ending, which I've been told is what most people want to read. The Original Ending is the first ending I came up with which I will warn you contains a character death. Sorry. I couldn't help it. It just came out that way.

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**Disclaimer: **_Emergency!_ and its characters are owned by Mark VII Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on any copyrights or trademarks is intended in any way, shape, or form. All medical errors are mine. This is just a story, and is meant for fun, nothing else. Enjoy!

* * *

"Don't worry, Johnny, it's just a phase. He'll get over it soon enough."

John Gage glowered at his partner, Roy DeSoto. "Yeah, well, it can't be soon enough for me!"

Roy tried not to smile at his partner's pouting. Johnny had been so excited about going camping with him and his son, Chris, but when Roy had invited fellow fire fighter Chet Kelly to come along, Johnny's enthusiasm sank a little, and when his son decided he'd rather hang out with the Phantom than Uncle Johnny, Johnny hit bottom. Then, adding insult to injury, the man's Rover broke down as they backed out of Roy's driveway, and they were forced to use Roy's wife's car to reach the campsite. Johnny was slouched in the front seat of the station wagon, arms folded across his chest and his lower lip jutted out in a full pout.

"C'mon, we'll still have fun!" Roy tried to cheer Johnny up. "We'll do a little hiking, a little fishing, tell ghost stories around the campfire . . ."

"Yeah, Uncle Johnny tells the _best_ stories!" Chris DeSoto piped up from the back seat.

"Chris, you haven't heard a ghost story till you've heard one told by the Phantom!" boasted Chet, who was seated next to the boy. He rubbed his hands together and cackled a maniacal laugh.

"Really?" Chris asked, excitedly.

"Trust me, kid," Chet answered, "I've got stories so scary they'll make your hair curl!"

"Wow! Cool!"

"Oh, that's just great, Roy," Johnny growled. "Now he's taking over the campfire story telling, too!"

Chet leaned up and around the back of the front seat to whisper in Johnny's ear. "Aw, what's the matter, my pigeon? Jealous?"

"I am _not_ jealous!" Johnny insisted, turning halfway in his seat to face his nemesis. "I just happen to think I've got better campfire stories than you've got!"

"Yeah? Well, we'll just see about that, won't we, Gage?" Chet slid back down to lean against the back seat, his moustache twitching with the evil grin.

Johnny turned to face forward again with a loud _"humph!"_, and slid down further into the front seat than Roy thought possible. He glanced at the back seat through the rear view mirror and saw Chet staring thoughtfully out the window, twisting bits of his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. _'Probably coming up with more ways to annoy Johnny this weekend,'_ Roy thought, and suddenly regretted inviting him.

The trip was initially supposed to be a get-away for himself and his almost-teenage son, but Chris had begged him to ask Uncle Johnny to go, too, and Roy had not been able to say no. He'd secretly hoped Johnny would have plans for the weekend, but he hadn't, and thought camping with the DeSoto boys sounded like fun. _'So much for the father/son bonding trip,'_ Roy had thought. Chet had walked in on the end of the conversation, and agreed camping sounded fun. He'd been in a mild depression after getting dumped by his latest girlfriend, and Roy thought since the father/son thing was blown anyway, maybe Chet would feel better if he hung out with a couple friends in the great outdoors. Chet had brightened visibly when Roy asked him to come along, and he'd quickly agreed. Now, the four of them were making their way to their favourite campground by the lake for a little R&R.

Roy had to admit he was a bit surprised to find his son thought Chet was a more interesting adult to hang around with than either him or Johnny, but he hoped it was just a phase the boy was going through, and that it would be finished by the end of the trip. The last thing Roy needed was for his son to become the next Phantom. It did not escape his notice, however, that Chris' attention had brought Chet even further out of his depression, and Roy wasn't sure if he should be happy that Chet was feeling better, or not. It was apparent the Phantom was back, and that did not bode well for the already cranky Johnny, and now that the Phantom had a side-kick . . . Roy began to wonder if maybe he should've stayed at home.

* * *

Mark Watson was having another bad day. Since his wife threw him out of the house and served him with divorce papers over a week ago, and then getting fired for being late to work and hung over again on Monday, he wasn't sure he'd ever have a good day again. He stumbled out of the tattered four-person tent, groggily squinting into the bright morning sun, and headed down to the water to wake himself up. His head throbbed, and his mouth was dry and felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

_Just like the day before, and the day before that. _

He fell to his knees by the water's edge, and scooped a couple handfuls of the ice cold water onto his face. The frigid water shocked him into a more alert state, and bits and pieces of the night before began to ease their way out of his foggy mind. Another bottle of whiskey, that's what he'd had for dinner again last night. Or was it that case of Budweiser? No, that was lunch, he remembered. His stomach recoiled at the thought of all the alcohol he'd consumed, and Mark staggered a few feet towards the brush to vomit.

When the heaving stopped, Mark dragged himself back to the tent to sleep off his hangover. He was glad he'd managed to get such a nice, isolated spot right by the lake. He was sure it was a prime space, but there weren't many people camping in the middle of the week, even in the height of summer, and he planned to move on before the weekend came. He tried to remember what day it was, but his memory was hazy. He figured it must be getting close to the end of the week, however, and decided to give it one more day, and move out. He'd been lucky no rangers had stopped by, since he hadn't bothered checking in or paying for the space, he would've been thrown out. He just needed a few more days to straighten himself out. He would this time, he promised himself. He would quit drinking, get a good job, and be a more responsible person. Then Sheryl would take him back; he could have his family back again.

Mark reached the tent, and crawled inside. His hand landed on a cold bottle, and rolling over to sit, he held it up in his shaking hands. His vision was still a bit blurry, but he could tell the bottle was square and squat, it was about half full of an amber coloured liquid, and the label was black - his old pal, Jack Daniels.

_Can't let it go to waste,_ he thought. _I'll quit drinking tomorrow._

Slowly, with exaggerated movements, he managed to unscrew the top, get the bottle to his lips, and drink in the burning liquid. In his slightly unstable state, the effort sent him sprawling onto his back, the contents of the bottle splashing over his face, clothes and sleeping bag as his arm fell out to his side. He knew he should try to get the top back on the bottle, but couldn't find the strength to move. He lay there, his muddled brain trying unsuccessfully to make sense of his current predicament. Within moments, he was, once again, passed out, all thoughts of changing his life for the better, forgotten.

* * *

Roy pulled the station wagon into the campground just before noon, and stopped by the kiosk to inquire about a space. The ranger, a tall, friendly, blonde-haired man, told Roy there was one space left at the other end of the park, and he was lucky to get it, as it was shaping up to be a busy weekend for camping. Already the place was bustling with overnight campers setting up tents and leveling trailers, and day-trippers just out for a picnic and short hike. Roy thanked the ranger and paid him, and returned to the car to find Chet and Johnny at it once again.

"Go Phantom! Right on!" Chris cheered as the Phantom's latest barb sent Johnny sputtering for a snappy comeback. He didn't have anything, and was forced to fall back on his usual lame, "Shut up, Chet!"

Chris and Chet gave each other five, and Johnny looked hurt. He always assumed that besides Roy, he was Chris' favourite grown-up, and now suddenly there was some competition for the boy's affections. Johnny was not handling it very well. Roy sighed heavily as he realized he'd be stuck for two days with a grumpy Gage while Chet taught his son all the Phantom's secrets. He briefly considered going back and telling the ranger he'd changed his mind, getting his money back, and going out to tell his carload of campers they had no spaces available, and just go home. But, Roy was not good at lying, and he was sure they'd see right through him. Sighing again, he got in the car, and headed off to their campsite without saying a word.

* * *

Roy pulled up to their designated campsite, frowning. Another tent was pitched on the far side of the site, and the amount of trash outside, and the smoldering remains of a campfire told him the site had been occupied for several days at least.

_'Huh. Why didn't the ranger tell me this spot was occupied?'_ Roy wondered.

"Hey, Roy, is this the right spot?" Johnny asked, as he leaned forward on the dashboard to take in the scene.

Roy consulted the map the ranger had given him; a red circle clearly marked the space that he'd assigned them.

"According to this, yes."

"Huh. Then what these people are doing here?" His partner wondered.

"I dunno," Roy answered. "Must be a mix-up somewhere. Maybe we should go back to the . . . hey, Johnny, where're you going?"

Johnny leapt from the car and headed over to the tent. Roy jumped out of the driver's side, and went after him. Chris stepped out of the car, too, and started to follow his dad, but Chet grabbed him, and kept him close to the car.

"What do you think you're doing?" Roy asked Johnny.

"I'm just gonna go ask them if they're leaving sometime today, or if the ranger was wrong about this space being available," Johnny snapped, still moving towards the tent.

He really didn't mean to be short with Roy like that, but he was already in a bad mood, and this new development just made it worse. It annoyed him when people dawdled. As much as he understood not wanting to leave such a beautiful place, he thought that not leaving promptly so that the next campers could use the space was just rude. He was already miffed with Chet pestering him, and the mood worsened when Chris decided Chet was funnier than he was. Now, all Johnny wanted to do was set up camp, and go for a nice long hike to clear his head; preferably alone. He didn't want to admit that his feelings were hurt when Chris decided to hang out with Chet all weekend, and would likely be helping the Phantom play some pranks on him. He'd always felt close to the DeSoto children, and hated to share them with any other adults, other than their own parents, of course.

Seeing all the crumpled beer cans and empty liquor bottles strewn around the campsite only managed to make him angrier, and he decided that, along with kicking these people out of _their_ campsite, he'd give them a piece of his mind regarding littering as well.

Johnny was only about ten feet from the tent when its occupant emerged, wobbling unsteadily, and shielding his eyes from the sun. He was filthy, and Johnny suspected he hadn't bathed in several days. He also suspected the man was either still drunk or suffering from a nasty hangover - perhaps both, if the cans and bottles at his feet were any indication.

"Hey, you!" Johnny called.

The man turned, startled by Johnny's voice.

"What're you doing here?" the man growled. His vision was blurry, and he wasn't sure how many people where suddenly standing in his campsite. "This is _my_ camp!"

He waved his arms around as if showing them it was all his, nearly losing his balance with the effort, but regained his footing, and stood glaring at the intruders.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, his speech slurred. "What are you doing here? This is _my_ space! Get out, get out, _get out_!"

"Now, hold on just a minute, there, pal," John growled. "We just _paid_ for this space. The ranger said it was vacant, so we paid for it, so it's _ours_!"

"No, no, _no_!" The man shouted, and began flailing his arms about. "I was here _first_! It's _my_ space! _Mine_!"

Roy saw the scene before him quickly escalate from a mild disagreement to a heated argument, so he stepped forward, hoping to calm both his partner and the enraged, obviously drunk camper.

"Now, there's obviously been some mistake, here," he said, keeping his voice mild and pleasant. "Johnny, why don't we just go back to the ranger's sta . . ."

"No!" The man shouted.

"Now, sir, we don't want any troub . . ." Roy started again, but the man began hurling obscenities at them, spurning Chet to quickly cover Chris' 11-year-old ears against the verbal assault. He tried to pull the boy back towards the car, but Chris fought him, not wanting to leave his father and Uncle Johnny with an apparent madman.

Roy shot a look to Johnny, whose demeanor had changed drastically. He could tell they were now both in full paramedic mode: Cool, calm, professional.

"Now, sir," Johnny began, then hesitated, unsure what to say next. Usually he would say something like "we're here to help you," or "everything's going to be okay," but they were not there to help this man, and Johnny had a terrible feeling that everything was not going to be okay.

The man turned and headed back into the tent. Johnny stood for a moment, not sure what to do. The guy was obviously out of his mind with liquor, and could easily hurt himself or others. Behind him, he could hear Roy and Chet's low voices desperately urging him to leave with them.

"C'mon Johnny!" Chet called, "let's get out of here. This guy's nuts!"

"We'll go back to the ranger's Station, let them handle it," Roy said from just behind Johnny's left shoulder. "C'mon, Johnny, I know we're paid to help people, but right now we're _off_-duty, remember?"

* * *

Inside the tent, Mark had just reached what he'd gone in for when the words reached him: _" . . .we're **off**-duty . . ."_

_Off-duty?_

**_Off-duty!_ **

_'Shit!' _he thought, _'Cops!'_

His trembling fingers wrapped around the handle of the gun, and he drew it out of the backpack he had it stashed in. He'd brought it along in case he was threatened by a wild animal or something, but now he found himself facing an even bigger threat: The police. If he were arrested again, he'd spend the rest of his life in jail for sure. Then he'd never get his family back, his life back. He'd never get a second chance. He couldn't let that happen. He had to stop them.

* * *

Johnny was torn. On the one hand, Roy was right: Let the rangers deal with the drunk lunatic. They could call the police, or a squad, or whatever they wanted to. On the other hand, however, his paramedic training told him the guy was sick, probably just drunk or hung over, but still, Johnny just wanted to check the guy out, see that he was okay, then they could go. He had just taking a small, hesitant step towards the tent when the man burst out, this time brandishing a good-sized gun.

Johnny, Roy, Chet and Chris stood frozen, but the madman in the campsite remained animated, waving his arms around, cursing and pointing the weapon at them. John one hand out in front of him, a gesture, he hoped, the man would comprehend as non-threatening, and pushed Roy back towards the car with the other. The sudden shove caused Roy to lose his balance, and he fell to the ground, hitting his head on the hard, compact ground, and saw stars. Johnny took a large step sideways, putting himself between the madman and Roy, Chet and Chris.

"Okay, mister, look, we're leav . . ." Johnny began.

Mark's blurry, bloodshot eyes misinterpreted Johnny's sudden movement to his brain, and fearing he was about to be jumped, fired two shots.

As Roy started picking himself off the ground, the world spun. He thought he saw Johnny jerk as the bullets struck his body, and saw his partner slump to the ground five feet away from him. He thought he heard his son scream _"Uncle Johnny!" _and heard Chet's orders to the boy, _"Knock it off, Chris! Stay **here**!"_ as Chris fought to get away from Chet, then Roy's world went black.

Chris squirmed trying to get away from Chet to help his father and Uncle Johnny. A well placed kick to Chet's left shin was all that was needed for him to finally wriggle away from the fireman's grip, and run off towards the two men.

"Stop, stop!" he cried, running towards the fallen men, "Don't you hurt my Uncle Johnny! Dad! Dad! Wake up!"

The gunman hesitated only a moment before pointing his gun at this new threat and firing another round.

* * *

Chet only managed to take two steps towards his fallen friends before the madman began shooting wildly at him. Chet quickly dropped to the ground, and covered his head as the bullets whizzed by. He heard the sound of breaking glass as one or more bullets shattered the windshield of Roy's wife's station wagon, and the small explosion and expulsion of air as one of the tires was flattened. He finally looked up when he heard an _"oof!"_, and the sound of something hitting the ground, to find the man had managed to fall over, and was lying writhing on the ground, moaning. Chet crept forward, reaching Roy first.

" Roy! Roy!" Chet hissed, shaking Roy's shoulder, and keeping one eye on the lunatic.

"Huh? Wha . . ." Roy slowly regained consciousness, and Chet shook him harder.

" Roy! Wake up, man, we got a situation here," Chet's urgent voice penetrated the haze in Roy's brain, and he became instantly alert as his memory returned.

"Chris! Johnny!"

"Hang on, buddy, that guy's still here," Chet said, trying to keep Roy from jumping and getting himself shot. "He fell down, and hasn't gotten up, yet, but I'm not sure I trust him to stay put."

"Chris? Johnny?"

"Lemme check. You stay here!" Chet crept up towards the two on his belly, surprised that his Army training would suddenly come in so handy after all these years. He reached Chris first and touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. The boy moaned at his touch, and started to move.

"Shhh! Chris! Shhh! Stay down, buddy, okay? Stay down, and stay as quiet as you can, okay? Help's coming!" The boy's pulse was strong, and Chet could tell his injury wasn't too bad. He'd been hit in the thigh, but there was very little blood coming out of the wound, so the major artery hadn't been hit.

Chet lifted his head to see where the crazy man was, and found that while he'd been taking to Roy or examining Chris, the lunatic had disappeared. Chet rose to a crouch and looked around, but couldn't see where the guy had gone.

_'Damn!'_ Chet swore to himself. He grabbed Chris under his arms, and carefully dragged the boy back to his father. Roy hugged his son hard, then pulled away to assess his injury, as relieved as Chet had been to see little blood was coming from the wound.

"The guy's disappeared," Chet announced in a hushed voice, as Roy used Chris' bandana to tie around the hole in his thigh, "but keep your eyes opened. I'm gonna check on Johnny, and be right back." He turned and headed back to Johnny, who hadn't moved since first being hit. Chet had nearly reached his friend when the man was suddenly back, firing his weapon wildly.

Roy instinctively covered Chris' body with his own when the madman returned and started shooting again. He lay perfectly still and told Chris to do the same, so the man would think they were already dead, and leave them alone. He hoped Johnny would play dead, too, but then realized he hadn't heard so much as a moan of pain from his friend, and feared he might not be play-acting. Chet scrambled back to where Roy and Chris were.

"I couldn't get to him," he whispered, "that guy came back."

"Yeah, so I heard, where is he now?"

"He fell down again, but he'll be back on his feet in no time, I'm sure. Must be the adrenaline pumping through him, giving him a little more strength."

"Chet," Roy hesitated before asking his friend to go for help. He couldn't be sure the maniac wouldn't follow him and shoot him. He wasn't sure if just staying here and playing dead until the man either left or passed out wasn't a better idea. Chet must've been reading his mind, however, as he looked back to the man struggling to regain his feet, then back to Roy and said, "I'm gonna go for help. I'll try to get that guy to follow me so you can start taking care of these two. Hey, is Chris okay?"

"Yeah, I think he'll be fine," Roy hesitated again. He didn't want Chet to go, but knew he had to. This site was fairly far removed from the rest of the campground, and it was possible no one heard the shots, no one knew they were in trouble. "Be careful."

"I will."

* * *

Mark focused as best he could on the first thing he saw that moved, raised his reloaded pistol and fired. He couldn't tell if he'd hit his intended target or not, because he'd staggered backwards and fallen down again, he was just picking himself up again, when he saw the man running away.

_'Dammit! He's going to get more cops! I gotta stop him!'_

Chet turned to see the man once again standing, although he was swaying back and forth, and very nearly fell over again. He took the opportunity to start running. And praying.

_'Please God, Jesus, Mother Mary! Help me! Help my friends! Help us!'_

Chet ran for all he was worth. Not one for this sort of physical activity, or any sort of physical activity at all, he began to tire quickly, and feared the crazy man stumbling behind him might actually be able to catch him up.

_'So long as he's away from Roy and the others,'_ he thought, _'I don't know how much Roy can actually do for Chris and John without any of his paramedic equipment, but even a little help is better than no help at all.'_

His lungs began to burn as he continued sprinting down the narrow dirt road. He guessed the nearest campsite to theirs was about a mile away, but had no idea how far he'd already gone. He hated to involve any other innocent people in this mess, but he didn't know what else to do. He chanced a look behind him to find the maniac not only still there, but seeming more sturdy on his feet, as though the adrenaline pumping through the man was sobering him up, clearing his head and giving him strength. The man stretched his arm out, pointing his pistol at Chet, and fired off a shot. Chet turned back and pushed himself even further, making deals with God as a bullet whizzed past his right ear.

_'Holy Father, Jesus Christ, Mother Mary, help me, please! I know I'm not good at this praying thing, even when I was attending church regularly; I usually spent the silent prayer time thinking of other things or planning my next big prank. But, I guess you already know that, huh? I never meant to be disrespectful, God, honest, I just never knew what to pray for; what to say, how to say it. I don't even know now, God, but, please, please, help me! I'm sorry for all the crappy things I've done! I promise I'll be a better person! I won't torment my friends anymore, even John Gage. Oh, God, please let John be okay, please!'_

_

* * *

_

After assuring himself that they were truly alone at the campsite, and checking Chris' injured leg again, Roy made his way towards Johnny. His partner hadn't moved since being hit, and Roy's heart was in his throat as he neared Johnny's prone form. Kneeling beside his partner, Roy began assessing his injuries. John had been hit twice, once on the right side of his chest and again in the right shoulder. His t-shirt was covered with blood, and a small amount had begun to pool beneath his body. Roy swallowed his fear, and clicked in to paramedic mode.

_Just don't look at his face. Pretend this is just another victim._

Roy reached down to check for a carotid pulse, his gaze on the hole in John's chest where blood continued to ooze out. The pulse was weak, but steady, and Roy felt tears of relief well up behind his eyes. He was close enough to see and hear John's ragged breathing, and suspected his right lung had been hit. Roy turned Johnny over to check for exit wounds. There was one, the upper right shoulder. The bullet that entered his chest was still somewhere inside.

_Damn!_

Gently laying Johnny back down, Roy looked up to see Chris standing opposite him, leaning heavily on a large branch he'd found and was using as a makeshift crutch.

"You shouldn't be moving around, son," he said.

"How's Uncle Johnny?" the boy asked.

"He's alive."

"What can I . . . can I help?"

Roy looked up at his son. The boy was obviously in pain from his own wound, and possibly in mild shock as well, but more from the terror of the situation, Roy guessed, than from blood loss, which was still minimal. Still, Chris shouldn't be up walking around on the leg, crutch or no.

"Yeah," Roy said, "stay here with Johnny. I need to get the first aid kit and some supplies from the car."

Roy made it to the car and back in record time, and dropped the armload of supplies on the ground by John's head. Blankets and towels accompanied the first aid kit. Roy folded two small towels, placing one underneath Johnny's wounded shoulder, and the other covering the entry wound. He took a third towel and placed it over the hole in Johnny's chest. He tore up a pillowcase to bind the right arm to Johnny's body to immobilize it, the he took the pillow and folded it in half, placing it under Johnny's ankles to raise his feet.

"Here, Chris, lean on these towels, keep steady pressure on them," Roy instructed.

Chris winced in pain as he rose to his knees to lean his body weight on his hands covering John's injuries. He knew it was important to keep pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. Roy kept one eye on his son as he once again assessed Johnny's vitals. He saw that little blood had come through the bandana around Chris' leg, despite the boy's movement. He knew his son must be in a great deal of pain, but was stoically keeping pressure on John's wounds. Chris looked up and caught his father watching him.

"It's not so bad, dad," he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. "It burns a little, but it doesn't hurt much."

Roy smiled, pride welling up inside him. "You're doing good, son," he said, "Everything is going to be just fine! Chet will be back here with help in no time."

"I don't know, dad," Chris replied skeptically, "Mr. Kelly isn't in very good shape!"

Roy laughed at his son's innocently honest assessment of Chet's physical condition. Despite being a firefighter, Chet had let himself go in recent years, and was getting a bit thick around the middle.

"You shouldn't laugh, dad," Chris said seriously. "You're not in very good shape yourself!"

"Oh, thanks a lot, son!" Roy laughed. Even though he was slightly offended, Roy knew Chris was right: He was getting just as bad as Chet.

_'Guess I better cut back on the beer, and start doing some sit ups!'_ Roy smiled, and checked Johnny's vitals again, pleased to find them unchanged. _'At least he's not getting any worse.'_

He noticed the towel over Johnny's chest wound was starting to bleed through, and folded up another one, placing it on top of the first one, and instructing Chris to continue keeping pressure on it. The right shoulder did not seem too bad, so he decided to leave it alone. He looked down the road where Chet had run for help, followed by the gun-wielding camper, and his smile faded. He wasn't sure how long Chet had been gone, but it seemed like a life time, and Roy was growing concerned.

_'God, I hope you're okay, Chet! I hope you're bringing back help!'_

* * *

Chet ran for all he was worth, continuing his babbling one-sided conversation with God, and throwing in pleas to Jesus, the Virgin Mary and every Saint he could think of, just for good measure.

_"Please God give me strength! I promise I'll take better care of myself! I promise I'll start jogging and stop drinking beer! Okay, maybe not stop en**tire**ly, but, you know, cut back a little. Limit to a couple a day. When I'm **off** duty, of course. That goes without saying. Oh, and chili dogs? No more! Unless it's Marco's chili, of course, then all bets are **off**! Jesus, Mother Mary, please let me find a ranger! Please, God, plea . . ."_

The site that greeted Chet Kelly when he rounded the bend in the road turned his litany into a cry of joy: parked at the small campsite was a National Park ranger's truck, and two rangers, a tall blonde-haired man, and a shorter brunette woman, were conversing with a family of four parked at the site.

_'Thank you, God! Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Holy Mother!'_

Where his voice came from, Chet didn't know, but suddenly there it was, shattering the peaceful afternoon.

"Help! Help! He's got a gun! He's got a gun!"

The group of people turned to look at him as he neared, screaming for help. After only a moment's hesitation, the male camper grabbed the woman and two small children who were standing beside him, and headed for his trailer. Chet saw the male ranger head for the truck and grab for a rifle that hung from a rack behind the seats, while the woman spoke frantically on a Handie-talk.

_Thank you, God! We're saved! We're saved!_

Chet had nearly reached the rangers, when the impact of the final bullet shot from Mark Watson's gun knocked him off his feet, and sent him sprawling on the ground.

* * *

Richard Johnston loved being a Forest ranger. He loved the outdoors: the fresh air, lakes and streams, the flora and fauna. He loved working at the campground where he could interact with people and show them the wonder and beauty of Mother Nature. He even loved being called "Ranger Rick," and often volunteered to visit schools for talks about the wilderness, and lead groups of school children through his park on field trips. He could not think of a more perfect job. Oh, sure there were down sides: wild animals disturbing campers, people occasionally arguing over a site, or complaining that their neighbour is being too loud. These were isolated incidents, however, and for the most part, being a Park ranger was heaven. Until one cold day in July when it became hell.

Ranger Rick and his partner, Margie Rodriguez, were doing their rounds before heading back to the station for supper. They were just finishing up visiting with the Levintons - Bob and his wife Julie, and their two children, Katie and Justin - and had one last site to visit, when a terrified man came running down the road towards them, screaming that someone had a gun. Rick and Margie were not police officers, and although they'd had their share of breaking up fights between campers, never had either of them had to deal with an armed man. The rifles they carried in the truck were to defend against dangerous wild animals, and Rick could only remember one time in his ten years as a ranger that he'd ever even used it - a day five years earlier when a bear wandered into a campsite, and ravaged a family's cooler. He'd only fired a couple shots over the bear's head to scare it off, and it had worked: the bear had left. He'd never had to fire on another human being before. He didn't even remember saying anything to anyone, or going to get his rifle, but somehow he found himself standing next to Margie again, the rifle in his hand, watching the frightened man run towards them. He saw a second man with a pistol round the corner, and suddenly everything was in slow motion. The gunman raised the weapon and fired at the fleeing man, who staggered and fell to the ground. Then the man pointed the gun at him.

Rick aimed his rifle at the gunman, ordering him to drop his weapon, but the man continued towards them. He tried calling to him again, but was ignored. He knew he had no choice, and opened fire on the gunman, striking him once in the chest. The man was thrown backwards, and landed heavily in the middle of the road. Rick cautiously headed over to the gunman, his rifle on him the whole time. Sirens could already be heard coming up the road, and soon a Sheriff's cruiser was parked behind the ranger's vehicle. Rick gave Sheriff Tim Wilson the details as he knew them, and left the scene in the Sheriff's hands while he and Margie went to check the last campsite. He remembered assigning the spot to a pleasant auburn-haired man, who said two of his friends and his son were with him. Fear constricted Rick's throat as he approached the isolated campsite, wondering how many bodies would greet him there.

* * *

Roy thought the wailing of the siren was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Well, second most beautiful, he corrected, recalling his partner's moaning and attempts to speak during his brief period of consciousness five minutes earlier. The ranger's truck rounded the corner, and cut across the campsite to where Roy, Chris and John were. The ranger jumped out, and quickly assessed the scene.

"How many of you are hurt?" he asked.

"Just two," Roy answered, "My son and my partner."

"We've got an ambulance on the way, but it might be best if we took the three of you back to the Ranger's Station and met up with it there."

"Sounds good, but we've got to be careful with Johnny, here. One of the bullets is still in him, and too much jostling might make it move around inside him. The bleeding is pretty much under control, and his vitals have been fairly stable, but he's lost a lot of blood and has been shocky. He needs an IV soon. How far away is the nearest hospital?"

Rick nodded his understanding, and answered, "Weston Memorial is about thirty, forty minutes from here. Margie, bring that stretcher." Soon the petite brunette hurried over easily carrying the flat metal and cloth stretcher.

With Roy's help, John was carefully strapped into the stretcher, and loaded into the back of the truck. Rick drove as quickly and as carefully as he could along the narrow, twisty dirt road to the station, with Margie calling in for updated ETA on the squad and ambulance that would meet them there. Roy and Chris rode in the back with John; Chris still applying pressure to the wounds, both of which bled freely once again, and Roy alternating between trying to keep John from moving around too much when he was jostled into consciousness, and monitoring his vitals. It was the longest five miles of his life, and yet Roy thought they arrived at the ranger Station only moments after leaving their campsite.

When they arrived, Roy never thought he was as happy to see two people in his life as he was when two blue-shirted paramedics appeared, and immediately grabbed the stretcher. Roy relinquished his control over Johnny gratefully. Chris, his responsibilities also taken over by the paramedics, still knelt beside him, his hands bloody from holding onto the soaked towels. The boy began weeping softly. Roy grabbed his son and pulled him into a hard, suffocating hug.

"It's okay now, son," Roy soothed, his throat tight with emotion, "Everything is going to be okay, now."

* * *

Once the paramedics from the newly established Rescue Outpost 12 had John on an IV and pain meds, he stabilized quickly, and soon they were ready to transport. Chris' injury was not considered life threatening, but he, too, was given an IV to replace his fluids, and a mild painkiller to reduce the burning pain in his thigh. Roy checked out okay, his vitals showing no indication of a concussion, mild or otherwise, but because he had lost consciousness briefly, they held off on the painkillers until a doctor could look at him. He was not in much pain anymore anyway, so it was no problem, but he accepted an ice pack for the goose egg on the back of his head gratefully. He opted to ride in front of the ambulance to make it easier for one of the paramedics to maneuver in the back with Chris and John and the ambulance attendant.

In the chaos surrounding the rescue, Roy had not seen Chet, nor had he asked after him. Not that he'd forgotten about Chet - just the opposite was true, and Roy had been thinking of ways to repay Chet for his bravery in running for help and leading the maniac gunman away from him, Chris and Johnny. Roy thought briefly about the gunman but Ranger Rick - Roy chuckled at the thought of a grown man being named after a kid's nature magazine, and received a sideways glance from the ambulance driver - assured him everything was under control where that situation was concerned. He had also promised to take care of Roy's car. Roy had slumped with relief and lost count of how many times he thanked the ranger, but he'd forgotten to ask about Chet, and the ranger hadn't mentioned him.

Now, Roy wondered about Chet as they drove down the freeway, and headed towards the hospital. How far had he run before finding Rick and Margie? Where was Chet now? Probably still giving his story to the police, Roy guessed. He'd seen the Sheriff's cruiser parked at a campsite they'd passed on their way to the ranger's Station, but he's only taken a cursory glance. He didn't remember seeing Chet, but he reasoned, he hadn't really been looking for him, either.

_'He'll probably have to give a statement to the rangers, too,'_ Roy mused. _'He could be stuck there all night.'_

Roy settled back and looked out the passenger side window, the passing landscape a colourful blur to his weary, unfocused eyes.

* * *

Five hours later, Roy sat dozing in an uncomfortable hospital chair beside his son's bed. X-rays confirmed Chris' femur was undamaged, and the entry and exit wounds were stitched up and covered with clean bandages. He was expected to make a complete recovery, with no ill effects. Roy checked out okay, requiring nothing more than a couple Tylenol, and a fresh icepack. His headache was basically gone, now, and the swelling on his head was greatly reduced.

Johnny had successfully undergone surgery to remove the bullet and repair the moderate damage to his right lung. There had not much damage done to Johnny's right shoulder, and Roy had been assured that his partner would make a full recovery. The news brought Roy an overwhelming sense of peace and calm: his son and his partner would be okay.

Roy shifted slightly in his chair and felt himself being sucked into the black hole of sleep. Rather than fight the feeling any longer, he allowed himself to drift.

Only to be jerked awake as the image of a face came unbidden to him: The moustache twitching with a wicked grin, the warm eyes sparkling with mischief, and a dorky attempt at an ominous laugh echoing across the apparatus bay as Johnny got soaked again by one of the Phantom's water bombs.

_Chet!_

Roy glanced at his son, who was sleeping peacefully in his bed, before carefully lifting himself off the chair and heading off in search of his prankster friend. Inquiries at the nurses station yielded no information, and Roy didn't find Chet in either the waiting room at the end of the hall, or down in Emergency, where further inquiries assured Roy that no one by the name of Chet Kelly had been brought in as a patient, either. Roy headed back to the floor where Johnny was recovering, to see if Chet had headed up there. Roy smiled imagining a concerned and contrite Chet promising to retire the Phantom permanently if only Johnny would get better. But the third floor waiting room was empty too, as was Johnny's room.

Roy hesitated in the threshold briefly before walking in. He stood by John's side and examined the readings from the equipment next to him. He smiled.

"Looking good, Junior," he said, quietly. "You'll be up and outta here in no time."

He reached down and gave John's hand a quick squeeze, and was surprised to feel his partner's fingers twitch in response.

_'Just a knee-jerk reaction,'_ Roy thought, but tried again just in case.

"Johnny?" he asked. "Johnny, can you hear me?"

Again the fingers flickered, this time accompanied by a moan and movement of John's head.

"R . . .Ro . . ."

"Yeah," Roy answered, "I'm here."

" Roy . . ."

"Yeah. Everything's fine, Johnny, you're going to be fine."

"C . . . Cr . . . Chris?"

"Yes, he's fine, too." John fell unconscious again, and after watching his partner and best friend sleep for a few moments, Roy gently released John's hand and quietly left his room.

* * *

" Roy?"

Roy turned towards the voice to see Ranger Rick and another man Roy didn't know stepping off the elevator and walking down the hall towards him. The man's uniform told Roy he was a Sheriff and he assumed the two officials were here about the shooting.

"Rick," Roy extended his hand in greeting, "Good to see you again."

Rick clasped Roy's hand in a warm handshake, "Likewise. Roy DeSoto, this is Sheriff Tim Wilson," Rick introduced the other man. "He responded to the shooting that you all were involved in."

Roy and Sheriff Wilson exchanged greetings, and the three men stood silently for a moment. Finally, Rick broke the silence.

"So, Roy, how's your boy doing?"

Roy smiled, "He's doing great, thanks for asking. He'll have some scars, naturally, but there should be no lasting effects from his injury."

"That's great news, Roy," Rick agreed. "How about your partner? You know, Ross and Angel - the two paramedics who worked on him and your son - said they'd heard of you both. Said it was kind-of intimidating to be treating a couple of legends in the field."

Roy blushed at the compliment.

"Well, they did a great job out there," he said, "I'd like to have the opportunity to thank them sometime."

"Well, you'll be here a couple days won't you?"

"Yeah. Dr. Brackett at Rampart General, the hospital we work out of, said since both Johnny and Chris were stabilized and getting such good care, there's no point in moving either of them right away. He said to give them some time to heal before transporting them home. . . er, I mean to Rampart."

"I guess that place would seem like a home away from home for you guys, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad to hear your partner's doing so good, too! Well, anyway, you'll probably get the chance to meet the 'medics and thank them personally, since you'll be around for awhile."

The sheriff spoke up for the first time, "I'm glad to hear Mr. Gage is doing well, too. Uh, I know this probably isn't a good time, but do you have any idea when I can speak to either Mr. Gage or your son?" The sheriff pulled out and began scribbling on a small notepad. "I'll need to get statements from them, as well as yourself, Mr. DeSoto."

"Please, call me Roy," Roy requested. "As for when you can see Chris, he should be up to talking to you tomorrow morning, any time after the doctor has seen him should be fine. You'll have to ask Johnny's doctor about getting a statement from him, though. He might be out of it for another day or so. But, I'm here now, so if you like . . ."

"That'd be great," Sheriff Wilson said. "Let's go find a quiet place to sit and talk."

* * *

When they were seated in an empty waiting room, and Rick returned with three cups of coffee, Roy launched into his story beginning from the time they entered the campground.

"Well, we pulled up and I went to see about getting a space. ranger Rick, there, set me up, I paid, and left."

"And, I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am about that," Rick said sadly.

"It wasn't your fault, Rick," Roy said, surprised at the ranger's apology. "You had no way of knowing there was a crazy man with a gun squatting at that site."

"But I _should_ have known," Rick insisted, standing up suddenly and pacing the room in frustration. "I should've checked that space - made sure it was clear before just handing it out to you."

"You couldn't have known . . ." Sheriff Wilson began.

"But I _should_ have, Tim!" Rick shouted. "I should've been more diligent!"

Rick turned from Roy and Sheriff Wilson, and ran a hand through his thick blonde hair in a gesture of frustration similar to the one Roy had seen from his partner so often in the past several years. The familiarity of the action made him smile slightly.

"Please, don't beat yourself up over this, " he told the ranger gently. "I don't blame you for any of this at all."

"Thank you, Roy," Rick said quietly, but did not turn back to face the men.

"Okay, getting back to your story, Roy," Sheriff Wilson redirected the conversation. "What happened when you reached the site? Did you see anything unusual? Was Mark Watson there when you arrived?"

"Mark Watson?" Roy asked.

"Yeah, that's the name of the gunman."

"Oh, " Roy sat pondering the name. "I guess I never got his name before."

"Was he there when you arrived?" The Sheriff prompted.

"No. Well, yeah, but we didn't know it at the time. When we pulled up all we saw was the tent, and the litter - bottles, cans, stuff like that - all around the tent."

"Uh, huh."

"I was just going to head back to the Ranger Station to find out what the problem was, but Johnny, my partner, wanted to go talk to the people, to find out if they were on their way out or not. Guess he figured there was no point in going all the way back to the station if they were just about to leave. I followed him, I was a few feet behind him, but before we even reached the tent, that guy, Mark Watson?"

Roy paused as the Sheriff nodded.

"Anyway, he popped out of the tent and started screaming at Johnny. They exchanged words. Nothing serious at first, but the guy was screaming that it was his space, and Johnny told him that we'd just paid for the space, so it was ours. It was obvious the guy was either drunk or on something. He was totally out of control. I went to stand by Johnny, and the guy ducked back into the tent. I didn't notice at the time that my son was out of the car, too, but I guess he was, and John and I were just standing there, you know, trying to figure out what to do. I think Johnny wanted to try to help the guy - after all, we're paramedics. Maybe we could help him. Personally, I just wanted to leave. Let the rangers deal with it. It's not like we were on duty or had any equipment to help the guy, or anything, and the guy was just drunk, not really sick."

"You were sure about that? That he was drunk?"

"Well, it was obvious to me by the way he staggered around and by his slurred speech, not to mention the liquour bottles and beer cans everywhere. It was obvious to me the guy'd been on quite a bender. I've seen a lot of people drunk or on drugs, and, in my professional opinion, he was just really, really drunk."

The sheriff nodded, and made additional notations. "Okay, go on."

"Well, like I said, we were just standing there trying to decide what to do next, when suddenly the guy came back out, this time with a gun."

Roy paused in his telling of the events as the memories of that afternoon washed over him. He heaved a heavy sigh before continuing.

"When he saw the gun, Johnny pushed me back, and I lost my balance and fell. I whacked my head pretty hard on the ground, and eventually blacked out. Before I did, though, I heard a couple of pops, and saw Johnny jerk, like he'd been hit, and fall to the ground. After that it gets fuzzy. I think I remember hearing my son screaming something, and heard another shot, but by then I think I was out. The next thing I remember is Chet being at my side trying to wake me up."

"Chet?"

"Yeah, Chet Kelly, my other friend who was there. He works with Johnny and me at Station 51. He's a fireman."

Sheriff Wilson dropped his gaze to his note pad and scribbled some more.

"Where is Chet, anyway?" Roy asked, suddenly remembering his missing friend.

"What happened next, Roy," Sheriff Wilson said, ignoring Roy's question.

"Do you know where Chet is?" Roy asked a little more firmly.

"Let's just finish the story, first, Roy. Then we'll take you to see Mr. Kelly."

Roy shifted his gaze from the sheriff to the ranger, who avoided the paramedic's eyes.

"What happened next, Roy?" The sheriff asked again.

Roy stared at the Sheriff, who met his gaze evenly. Roy sensed there was something wrong, but recognized the look in the Sheriff's eyes. He would get no information on Chet until he gave the man what he wanted. Roy sighed, resigned to finishing the story as quickly as possible, trying to suppress the feeling of dread coming over him, and the dozens of questions he had about Chet.

"After Chet woke me up, he went to check on Chris and Johnny. He came back with Chris, and said the guy'd disappeared, then headed back for Johnny. I was checking Chris out, so I didn't see what happened, but I heard some more shots, and ducked down with my son, basically playing dead. Chet made his way back to us, and said he was unable to get to Johnny, and that he was going to go for help. I . . . I didn't _want_ him to leave, but I knew we needed help, so I let him. He took off running, and the guy followed him."

Roy stopped and looked at his audience again. That Rick refused to meet his gaze and the sheriff held it steadily caused Roy's already tight stomach to clench even more. He tried to swallow the dread he felt. He hated this. He hated having to relive this horrible experience. He hated not knowing what, if anything, had happened to Chet. He hated that his imagination was running wild, and just wished someone would _tell_ him. He could handle it better if someone would just tell him the truth.

"What did you do, Roy, after your friend and Watson left?" Sheriff Wilson asked, somewhat more gently.

"I treated my son and my partner as best I could, and waited for help to arrive. Chris' injury wasn't too serious. I tied a bandana around the wound, and told him to stay put while I went to check on Johnny. He didn't listen, though, and ended up coming to help me with Johnny."

"How was Mr. Gage at this point? Was he conscious? Was he able to speak?"

"Johnny wasn't doing too good. He'd been hit twice - once in the chest, and once through the right shoulder."

Unconsciously, Roy pointed to his own chest and shoulder indicating the location of Johnny's wounds.

"My son was able to help me, and stayed with Johnny while I got the first aid kit and some supplies out of the car. When I returned, I examined Johnny, and used towels to cover Johnny's wounds. Chris kept pressure on them while I continued to check John's vitals. He was unconscious most of the time, but he did come out of it once."

"Did he say anything at that time?"

"No. He was pretty out of it. He'd lost a lot of blood, and was getting real shocky, his breathing was a little laboured due to the injury to his right lung. He only moaned a little bit, then was unconscious again. We just sat there and waited for help. Soon - well it seemed like an eternity, but I guess it really wasn't more than fifteen or twenty minutes - Rick and his partner . . . I'm sorry, I forgot her name."

"Margie. Margarita Louisa Rosa Lopez-Rodriguez," Rick supplied.

Roy smiled and chuckled slightly as Rick rattled off a list of names that would make the females in Marco Lopez's family jealous.

"Yeah, Margie, that's it," Roy said, turning serious again. "Anyway, Rick and Margie showed up, and we got Johnny and Chris loaded up in the back of their truck, and we headed back to the ranger Station where a squad and ambulance were waiting. The paramedics took over treating Johnny then, and checked both Chris and I out, and then we were on our way to the hospital. The rest, I'm sure, you already know."

The Sheriff was scribbling again, not looking at Roy, but nodded his head.

"Okay, Sheriff," Roy said, steeling himself for what was to come. "I've told you everything I know, now I want you to tell me about Chet."


	2. A Cold Day in July Original Ending

**A Cold Day in July -- Original Ending**

* * *

**Disclaimer: **_Emergency!_ and its characters are owned by Mark VII Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on any copyrights or trademarks is intended in any way, shape, or form. All medical errors are mine. This is just a story, and is meant for fun, nothing else. Enjoy!

* * *

"Wait, Roy," Rick spoke up now. "I'd like to tell you. After all, I was right there." 

"Are you sure, Rick?" The Sheriff asked. "You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"Very well. I'll wait downstairs for you," Sheriff said. "I'll need to get a posit . . ."

"Yes, Tim, we'll be down in a minute," Rick interrupted, dismissing the man.

Sheriff Wilson nodded his understanding, closed his notebook, and turned to leave the waiting room. Roy remained where he was, while Rick shifted on his feet, running his fingers though his hair repeatedly. Finally, Roy sighed, and looked up at Rick.

"Please, sit down, Rick, and tell me what happened," Roy's voice was just above a whisper, as he indicated the seat adjacent to him that had just been occupied by the Sheriff. Reluctantly, Rick moved to sit down, and Roy shifted slightly in his seat, tears already welling up in his eyes, his throat already constricting as he anticipated what he was about to be told: that one of his friends was dead.

"Roy," Rick began, then stopped to clear his throat. He took a deep breath, and continued. "Margie and I were doing site checks - just going from site to site making sure everything is okay, and everyone's having a good time. That sort of thing. We were talking to a family from Oklahoma, when a man came running around the corner screaming about some guy having a gun. We weren't sure what to make of it at first, but then this other guy comes around the corner, waving a pistol around. The campers ran for their trailer, and Margie got on the radio for backup, while I went to grab the rifle from the truck. By the time I got back . . ."

Rick paused, his voice catching in his throat.

Roy held his breath, silently willing Rick to continue.

"By the time I got back, Watson had already shot the other man. I shot Watson, but, God, Roy, I'm so sorry! There wasn't anything to be done for the other man. Your friend. Nothing."

* * *

"Chet! Hey, Chet, wake up!"

Roy placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, shaking it slightly, trying to rouse the man. He knew it was no use, knew before he'd even been lead into the stark, cold room, that his friend wouldn't wake up at his urging. It was a reflex action, Roy thought, just like pressing his fingers to Chet's neck to find the carotid pulse, or laying his hand on Chet's abdomen to feel for respirations that he knew weren't there. A reflex action. A force of habit.

Wishful thinking.

Chet did look like he was just sleeping, after all. His usually sparkling, mischievous eyes were closed, his mustache, usually twitching with a barely suppressed smirk was still, and his face was peaceful looking, like he was in a deep, deep sleep. But, Roy knew better. Roy had seen death enough in his career to recognize its stamp on his friend: Chet's face may have looked peaceful, but it was also still. Too still. There was no fluttering of an eyelash, no involuntary muscle twitching, no rise and fall of the chest. Just stillness.

A small white bandage was taped to the right side of his forehead, slightly covered by a few damp locks of Chet's bushy brown hair. Someone had washed Chet's hair. Someone had washed the blood and bone and brain tissue away that would've been on Chet's face and hair. Roy smiled slightly as he realized someone had gone to a lot of trouble to clean Chet up before he saw him. To spare him from the devastation caused when the bullet from Mark Watson's gun struck the back of Chet's head on the left side, ripped diagonally through his brain, and exited through the right side of his forehead. The kindness of such a person to think to clean up his friend before he was forced to walk into the cool dim room to see his friend's body, to identify him, nearly overwhelmed Roy. Chet's still features blurred as tears filled his eyes, spilling over the rims and dropping onto Chet's face and bare shoulder. He wiped the wetness away, apologizing, though he couldn't say why.

_It's not like you're gonna notice now._

"God! How did everything go so horribly wrong?" Roy asked aloud. "How did this happen?"

"So, this is your other friend, Roy?" Sheriff Wilson's quiet voice interrupted Roy's unanswerable questions.

Without turning to the officer, Roy nodded. "Yes, this is Chet Kelly," he said. "Chester B. Kelly. A fireman. My brother. My friend."

Sheriff Wilson nodded, wrote the information in his notebook, and turned to leave. Stopping, he turned back to the mourning man. Placing his hand on Roy's shoulder, the sheriff gave it a squeeze.

"I'm very sorry, Roy," he said, then released his grip and left.

Ranger Rick had been standing a few feet away from Roy, not wanting to intrude, but approached him now. Roy did turn to face Rick when he came to stand beside him, and saw the blonde man's agonized expression.

"None of this is your fault, Rick," Roy insisted.

Rick swallowed hard and nodded. He didn't really believe it wasn't his fault, but wasn't about to argue with the man, either. He looked down onto the face of the man he'd never met, but whose last moments he'd witnessed. He knew he was responsible for this man's death, as well as the injuries suffered by Roy's other friend and his young boy upstairs. No one could tell him otherwise.

Roy's hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he looked into Roy's intense blue eyes.

"Please don't let this eat you up, Rick! Chet certainly wouldn't want you to beat yourself up about this, and neither do I. It's _not_ your fault! If anyone's at fault it's Mark Wilson! _He_ was the one who shot Johnny, and Chris, and Chet, _not_ you!"

Rick nodded and smiled slightly to placate the man, but he knew he'd carry the responsibility and guilt of this man's death with him for a long, long time.

"I'll leave you alone, now," Rick said, and turned to leave the morgue.

Roy watched the man go, saddened by the weight he now carried on his slumped shoulders.

_It's not your fault, Rick! It's not your fault!_ Roy chanted in his head.

When the door to the room swung shut, Roy turned his attention back to Chet.

"I'm not really a religious man, Chet. Then again, I guess all fire fighters are religious by default: We pray every time we head off to a call. Pray the victims will survive until we get there. Pray they won't be too badly injured, and we can help them. Pray no one is hurt or killed fighting a fire, or attempting a dangerous rescue. We pray all the time, and never really realize it." Roy paused to chuckle. "I guess I'm a religious guy after all, huh, Chet?"

Roy's smile faded as he realized the typical Chet Kelly smart-ass comment that would usually follow a confession like that would never come.

"Oh, God, Chet, I'm sorry! I never should've let you go out there! It's my fault you're . . . you're . . . ah, Jesus!"

Roy let the tears fall freely, and didn't bother trying to conceal his grief when he felt another person standing beside him. A small warm hand touched his shoulder, and he recognized the voice of Nurse Dana.

"Roy, don't blame yourself! You're no more responsible for this than Rick is! Did you forget what you just told him? It was Mark Wilson's fault! Mark Wilson shot your two friends and your son. Mark Wilson killed Chet!"

Roy shook his head, but was too tired to argue with her. He knew he should've stopped Chet from going, from leading the gunman away from them. It was selfish of him to allow Chet to leave like that. To save only himself, and Johnny, and Chris.

Dana sighed. She'd just had a similar conversation with Park Ranger Rick Johnston in the hallway. Everyone was blaming themselves for what happened, when it was really only the fault of one man: The man with the gun!

"Come on, Roy," she said quietly, gently urging him away from the body. "Your son woke up a few minutes ago. He's being brave, but I know he's hurting, and he's scared. He needs you."

Roy nodded, swallowing hard, and wiping his wet face with his sleeve. "Just a minute," he said. "I'll be up in a minute."

Dana regarded the man a moment longer then nodded and quietly left.

Roy looked down at Chet's still form again. "Chet Kelly, you're a good man! When the chips are down, you're right there! You didn't even hesitate. Didn't think about yourself, you just _went_! You're a damn good fire fighter and a damn good friend! I'll never forget what you sacrificed for me and my son and Johnny! _Never!_ I know I'll never be able to repay you for what you've done, and I know the words are meaningless to you now, but I thank you, Chet! Thank you for saving my son, and Johnny, and me! God?" Roy lifted his face to address the unseen deity. "God, take care of him! He gave up his life for my family and my friend. Please, God, take care of him!"

After pausing for a moment, Roy took one last look at his friend, and then turned to go to his son.

The End


	3. A Cold Day in July Alternate Ending

**A Cold Day in July -- Alternate Ending**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** _Emergency!_ and its characters are owned by Mark VII Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on any copyrights or trademarks is intended in any way, shape, or form. All medical errors are mine. This is just a story, and is meant for fun, nothing else. Enjoy!

* * *

"I'll do better than that," the Sheriff said, looking up from his notebook, smiling for the first time, "I'll take you to him."

* * *

Sheriff Wilson stopped in front of the closed door to a room on the second floor of Weston Memorial Hospital, and turned to Roy.

"There's something I should probably tell you before you go in there," he said.

Roy stiffened, steeling himself for what he expected would be bad news about his friend's condition.

"From what you've told me, I'm _pretty_ sure the guy we've got in here is your friend," the Sheriff continued. "However, the guy didn't have any ID on him, and was unconscious when I arrived at the scene. He was still that way when he was brought in here. Because of that, he was listed as a 'John Doe.' Basically, Roy, what I'm saying is, I _think_ this is your friend, but I'm not sure. Hopefully, you'll be able to tell me for sure."

A nurse came around the corner, and seeing a man in front of her patient's door, headed for Roy, intent on shooing him away.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked, politely, but with a firm voice.

Roy turned, and the nurse could then see Sheriff Wilson had been standing behind him.

"Oh, sorry, Sheriff! I didn't see you there!"

"That's okay, Dana," the Sheriff smiled, and indicated Roy. "Dana, this is Roy DeSoto, and I think he'll be able to shed some light on our John Doe in here," he said, pointing at the door with his thumb.

"Oh, that would be great!" Nurse Dana exclaimed. "The poor guy's been pretty out of it since he was brought in here. He's got a moderate concussion, and he's been on painkillers for the gun shot wound . . ."

"Gun shot wound? Chet was shot!" Roy turned on the Sheriff, his eyes angry once again. "Why didn't you tell me Chet was shot when I first asked about him?"

"I wasn't sure if this John Doe was your friend Chet at first . . ."

"Waddya mean you weren't sure?" Roy demanded. "He was shot by the same guy who shot my son and my partner, right? Or did you have two gun-wielding lunatics in your park today?"

"Now, Roy . . ."

"Don't 'now Roy' me!" Roy growled. "Get out of my way!"

Roy shoved his way past the Sheriff and the nurse, and entered the room. The lights were dim, but Roy could clearly make out his friend's features in the shadows. He forced himself to calm down before slowly approaching the bed, and laying his hand on Chet's shoulder.

"Chet? Hey, Chester B., can you hear me?"

Chet moaned a bit in response, but did not awaken. Still, Roy smiled at his friend. He turned to look at the equipment surrounding Chet, and then tenderly examined the large white bandage that was wrapped around his head. He didn't realize Sheriff Wilson and nurse Dana had followed him in the room until the Sheriff spoke.

"So this is your friend, um . . ." he paused, flipping through his small notepad.

"Kelly," Roy told him stiffly. "Chester B. Kelly."

The Sheriff nodded, "Yeah, Kelly, right. Thank you. That should be all for now, but if I need to reach you . . ."

"I'll be here in the hospital until my son and my _friends_ are well enough to be transferred to Rampart General Hospital in LA," Roy told him.

Sheriff Wilson nodded, closed his notebook, and left the room without another word. Nurse Dana had picked up Chet's chart and was crossing out the "John Doe," and writing "Chester B. Kelly" above it, saying the name out loud as she spelled out each part of it.

"You mind if I take a look at that?" Roy asked, feeling a bit more relaxed since the sheriff left. "I'm a paramedic with the LA County Fire Department. Call it a professional curiosity!"

"Sure!" Dana smiled and handed him the chart. She gave her patient a quick appraising glance. "He seems to be resting comfortably now. You can stay for a while, but you really should try to get some rest yourself."

Roy returned her smile, feeling truly happy for the first time since entering the campground at noon, nearly twelve hours earlier.

"Yeah, I will. Thanks!"

The nurse left, and Roy turned to Chet once more, quietly watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. He settled himself in the chair beside the bed, and opened Chet's chart, scanning the information there: _Moderate concussion, laceration and abrasions on right forehead, abrasions on both palms, right elbow and forearm . . ._

Roy looked at Chet again, and realized he'd been so angry and annoyed at the Sheriff that he hadn't bothered asking him exactly what had happened to his friend.

Sighing, Roy turned back to the chart, and reading just a bit further, he sucked in a breath so suddenly, he ended up choking on his own spit. He tried to recover, but ended up succumbing to strangled laughter and a massive coughing fit.

"God_dam_mit!"

Regrettably, the noise woke Chet, who moaned and turned to the find the source of the noise. He could barely make out the figure sitting next to him, but he recognized the voice.

"Roy?" he rasped.

Roy sat forward in the chair, calming himself some, but still suffering from a case of the giggles.

"Hey, Chet, I'm right here, buddy!"

"Damn, Roy, what's so funny?"

"Nothing, Chet. How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been _shot_," Chet replied with grumpy, sluggish sarcasm, "How do you _think_ I feel?"

"Well, I dunno," Roy shrugged, unable to come up with a witty retort or suppress his grin.

"It's not _funny_!"

"I'm sorry, Chet, but it _is_! It's funny because everyone's okay. Chris is okay, John, and you're going to be okay, too, and I was just so Goddamn scared, Chet, but everything's okay now, so yes, Chet, I'm sorry, but it's just so Goddamn funny!" Roy knew he was babbling and slightly hysterical, but he didn't care. He was so relieved that everything and everyone was going to be okay.

"Oh, sure, Roy, laugh at a guy when he's down!"

"I'm sorry, Chet, really!" Roy gasped in between chuckles. "But it's just so funny, really! I swear, you're the only guy I know who could get himself shot in the ass!"

"Oh, ha, ha," Chet glowered.

"Oh, c'mon, Chet, you gotta admit, it's pretty funny! If it was Johnny laying here with a hole in his right butt cheek, you be having just as much fun with it, maybe more!"

Chet pondered this a moment before answering. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he admitted. "How's Gage doing, anyway? You said he was gonna be okay?"

"Yes, Chet, he'll be fine. Gonna have a lot recovery to do, he'll be out of commission for awhile, but he'll be just fine. He got lucky. We all did."

Chet nodded. "And Chris?"

"He's fine, too!"

Chet blew out a breath, relieved. He figured from Roy's reaction to his own injury that all was well, and had even picked up on a few conversations going on around him, but he needed to hear it from Roy for it all to be true: they had all survived the ordeal. He'd been sore and slightly disoriented when first brought into the hospital, and had chosen to keep his eyes and mouth shut, and his ears open, all the while trying to ignore the burning discomfort of his injuries, and fighting the fogging effects of the sedatives they'd been giving him. The campground shooting was the biggest thing to happen in the area in decades, and everyone was talking about it. He'd heard from the nursing staff as they went about taking his vitals and administering medication, as well as from the doctors who came to check his wounds that both Johnny and Chris were alive, Roy had not been injured aside from a bump on the head, and the gunman had been killed. Chet tried to feel sorry for the guy somehow. Tried. And failed.

"So, what was this guy's story, anyway, Roy?"

Roy shrugged and became serious. "He was a career drunk. Apparently his wife had just left him, and he lost his job, and he just kept drinking. . ." He shrugged again, and let the explanation fade. No more really needed to be said: it was a familiar story to the two men who'd seen too many times the devastation caused by the misuse of alcohol.

Chet shifted in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and winced as the movement caused pain. Instantly alert, Roy stood and leaned over him.

"You okay, Chet? Do you need a painkiller? I can call the nurse . . ."

"No, thanks, Roy," Chet interrupted. "It's okay. It just aches, burns sometimes. You know?"

Roy didn't bother trying to suppress a smile, as he relaxed and sat back down again. "Yeah, I suppose it does."

Chet glared at him, then turned away and sighed. "I'm going to be a laughing stock!"

Roy's smile faded, and he suddenly felt bad for finding humour in his friend's injury. "Yeah, I suppose you will be the butt of a few jokes for awhile . . . oh, sorry, Chet! No pun intended, there!"

"Uh huh," Chet grunted, sarcastically.

"No, really, I didn't mean it that way," Roy said earnestly, leaning forward in the chair. "As far as I'm concerned, Chet, you're a hero!"

Chet turned back to Roy, surprise written on his face. "A hero?"

"Yeah. What you did out there . . . risking your life like that . . .leading that guy away from us . . . you saved our lives, Chet! Johnny, Chris . . . who knows what would've happened if that guy'd gotten another chance at them! What you did was such a . . . a . . . _selfless_ act! You could've been _killed_, Chet!"

"I know."

"I won't forget what you did for us. Ever."

Chet looked up into Roy's intense blue eyes. Part of him wanted to pull his gaze away, embarrassed by his friend's sudden show of emotion, but he couldn't.

"Thank you, Chet," Roy said, he voice cracking as his throat became tight with emotion.

"Anytime, man," Chet replied quietly. "Anytime."

The End


End file.
